The Five Stages of Friends (With Benefits)
by Emma Lynch
Summary: It is my version of Season Four- John and Sherlock live together in Baker Street, still solving cases and working with Molly when the need arises. Everyone is pleased to see how Sherlock and Molly have overcome their awkwardness , especially after The Slap and all those awful shootings and exilings. John notes that things couldn't be better. Oh John, when will you ever learn...
1. Chapter 1

**Stage I : It is impossible to `catch` feelings**

He was high.

John Watson caught sight of his friend's flushed countenance, breathless laughter and dangerously glittering eyes as he pulled the key from the lock, allowing entry into the familiarly dim and musty hallway of 221B. Sherlock was virtually vibrating with a barely suppressed current of dark energy, which ran from the edges of his muddied boots to the tips of his wildly dishevelled hair - static, crackling, sparking and spitting with _life_.

Up the seventeen stairs, through the door and then circling the familiar space, touching, adjusting, but never resting. Hectic, bright spots above those sharp cheekbones and a slight sheen of sweat across his pale forehead as long, restless fingers clattered through slides and scattered learned men`s treatises across counter tops. Water was offered (and rejected), tea proffered (and huffed at) and even whisky, sloshed hastily into two tooth mugs (an appalling conglomeration inhabited the sink) was snubbed in favour of furious, frenetic (and frankly, irritating) fiddling about.

"Sherlock, for God's sake - "

John had elected to sit and attempt to peruse a takeaway menu in vain attempt to ` _lead by example`._

"I would have thought that sixteen solid hours in pursuit of Mr Gottileb and his arsonistic intentions would have resulted in a certain degree of… "

He searched for the term -

"Fatigue."

" _Frustration."_

Their simultaneous utterances momentarily resulted in the cessation of Sherlock Holmes, his hand fingers deep into an unspeakably atrocious looking pickle jar of blackened pig`s tongues. John almost took in a sigh of relief; it was as if someone had pressed `pause' on a tornado montage, allowing cars, fences, chimneys and cows to be frozen mid-air.

A mercurial gleam from his friend`s translucent eyes gave John Watson the very definite notion that the night, although more than complete for himself, was in its infancy for his flat-mate. This very notion managed to simultaneously ignite and exhaust him and he elected to sigh, most audibly.

"Sherlock, tonight you have, through astonishing deductive processes and considerable physical effort, pursued and apprehended a man who has been vexing the Met for the last eighteen months."

Pale eyes narrowed, but heat remained.

"Mate - do you think you could _sit down_? Give the tongues a night off? I'm pretty hungry, and I'm almost positive you've eaten nothing but a packet of Quavers during the last twenty four hours, and that was only because Molly Hooper stuffed them into your coat pocket as you tore through the lab this afternoon. Let me order some - "

" _No_."

The word resonated between them as the _hurricane-on-pause_ removed his hand from the jar, holding dripping fingers above the tea caddy and the full attention of his friend.

" _Thank you_? That's OK Sherlock, you can perhaps get a sandwich the day after tomorrow. Or a week on Thursday. No point in gluttony, especially in light of the contents of _that jar_."

Adroit and impressive sarcasm should always be acknowledged, but Sherlock Holmes was already lifting his discarded Belstaff from the sofa and looking expectantly around the flat for his phone, as if it should leap into his readied hand, in the manner of a faithful sidekick.

"I cannot believe you are going back out."

"And yet, I must bid you goodnight John. Enjoy your dim sum."

"You are _unbelievable_. Tonight was outstanding; Lestrade and all the lads gave you a round of applause when Gottileb confessed. He was the toughest nut they've ever had to crack, but you brought him to tears, Sherlock. Even Donovan shook your hand."

Sherlock had located the phone from beneath Dr Gauser's paper on rigour mortis in arctic temperatures with a satisfied glint as he faced his flatmate at the door.

"A moment I shall treasure until I am compelled to inform her that Anderson is back with his wife, but now John, I must leave you. The very idea of food, even Mr Lau`s seaweed pork dumplings, fills me with repugnance and I need to be… moving, thinking, talking, _evolving_ …"

"Like the _Terminator_?"

Their lock eyes again, but John recognises the miasma of incalcitrant decisiveness that Sherlock has silently proffered and decides to accept it. He`s seen it all before and knows that Sherlock will most likely walk until dawn through his beloved London, see the sun rise, drink french coffee and eat cinnamon toast at _Cafe Oblige_ on Marylebone Avenue, and be back before ten to sleep for at least twenty hours. It was both comforting and completely familiar, but he always felt Sherlock enjoyed it more if a tussle was had before he left; it added a certain dramatic appeal that his friend was more that partial towards.

A nanosecond has passed and Sherlock has turned on his heel, exiting the room with a suitably theatrical swish of coat and subsequent thunderous tumult down the stairs.

John presses his speed dial for Mr Lau`s with an unshakable fondness burgeoning from deep within, which even transcends his focus upon the best Chinese buffet in the Marylebone district.

 _That`s my friend_ , he thinks. He`s bloody brilliant, unstoppable, unshakeable and eternally exhausting. Each day he sifts through the recurrent dregs and detritus of this great city and manages to make sense of so many of those pieces of flotsam and jetsam that wash up on its river banks. Certainly, he brings sanity and reason to the confusion and devastation of the specks of humanity who turn up on his doorstep on a daily basis, and wheedles out the solutions that are almost always out of reach for us lesser mortals. He'll be back here come morning, and we'll share a coffee pot and relive the previous day`s events, most likely laughing at the ineptitude of the yard and making merry with their errors.

Yeah, bloody brilliant, and utterly predictable. Sherlock Holmes, the friend I never knew I needed, until I did.

 **~x~**

 _He is falling._

Head spun on an indeterminable axis, tilting with little regard or respect for any of Newton`s laws and little knowledge of a reference point, a horizon to halt the tail spin into the abyss.

Backwards into darkness, pinpricks of light igniting his peripheral vision as the vertigo both pushes and pulls and draws him down -

 _Down_

Until he crashes with a most abrupt and impolite _slam_ and everything suddenly -

Stops.

Textures beneath his open palms, crumpled, soft, warm. A trickle of moisture pooling and cooling as it edges across hot skin that tingles and hums as does an electrical storm, mere moments before the first drops of rain reach the parched ground. Sounds are returning and he hears harsh, laboured breaths, gasping greedily for air from the pitch black suffocating recesses of a fathomless, bottomless pit, and he is less than surprised to realise that those breaths, like the hands, the hot bright skin and the dissipating adrenalin are all _his own_.

Abruptly, his eyes flash open, letting in the light, the air and the soft sibilance of a whisper cutting across the ragged pounding of his heart.

" _My goodness!_ " comes the whisper, as a skein of auburn hair catches the glow of a nearby lamp and Sherlock finds his focal point in the deepest of dark brown eyes as they look down tentatively into his own, and he smiles a lazy and replete smile, as the tension and the high octane buzz from the chases of the day finally float away, like thistledown on the edges of a breeze.

He feels the heat of her, twining long, pale fingers into her cool, cascading, endlessly silken hair and pulls her down… down to join him in a tangle of crumpled sheets and slippery skin.

"Your _goodness_ had very little to do with it, my dear Miss Hooper," he breathes into her ear, and his eyes close again as his heartbeat gradually levels into its steady, even rhythm.

 **~x~**

The hum of the centrifuge stops abruptly the very moment Sherlock walks into the lab, coat swishing about him as if in imperious disdain for the other lab monkeys, all decked out in white coats or blue medical scrubs.

"Perfect timing," mutters John Watson from the lab stool he perches atop, arranging slide results to aid Molly Hooper, who once again seemed to have been sequestered by his friend.

"Obviously," returns Sherlock, casting aside said coat, scarf and resentful glances, and flipping open the machine`s stainless steel lid. "Precision and timing is a most elementary requirement in the pursuit of science John."

"Even for you, that's pompous."

"Mmm. Disappointing." He has retrieved a small vial and is holding it up to the light. "I need the Leitz, Molly. It has the best long aperture for a distillation of this viscosity."

Molly doesn't even raise her head from her own slides as she waves a vague hand towards the bank of morgue assistants and APT`s seated in serried ranks across the other side of the large, airy room.

"Mmm… Need this one, Sherlock. Ask someone else."

A faint crease appears between his brows as John watches an exposition of distaste play out across his features; Sherlock prefers not to interact with the whims and foibles of others, particularly if they are liable to refuse him. John smiles.

"You'll have to play nice, Sherlock. Maybe now you`ve finished with their centrifuge, they'll let you have a go on their microscopes."

"Molly?" His tone is plainly wheedling, and Molly Hooper is plainly not the girl she used to be as she turns around, her smirk mirroring that of John`s in eerie facsimile.

"Hey, _Phantom Menace_ , everyone has a job to do in here. Go, have a cup of coffee in Mike's office and I`ll give you a call in fifteen minutes when I`ve finished with these soil samples."

 _Wow, Molly Hooper._

Sherlock's eyes narrow into ice-blue slits, tilting his head as if to retort in pithy comeback, but he miraculously thinks better of it, sighs deeply and pulls out his phone as he steps towards the office. John is, in fact, astonished by such (albeit, resentful) acquiescence, but cannot fail to hear the muttered words as his friend huffs passed them both.

"Soil samples? I wrote the _book_ on soil samples."

And Sherlock is a hairsbreadth away from slamming that door.

 **~x~**

" _I have a rendezvous with Death_

 _At some disputed barricade,_

 _When Spring comes back with rustling shade_

 _And apple-blossoms fill the air— "_

John pauses outside the door of the the main lab, his hand actually on the handle as he recognises the sonorous, low tones of a voice he knows quite well (made a little more husky by a slight inflammation of the larynx).

" _It may be he shall take my hand_

 _And lead me into his dark land - "_

A choice both singularly appropriate _and_ inappropriate for the current surroundings.

" _And close my eyes and quench my breath—_

 _It may be I shall pass him still."_

A fleeting memory of four years ago and the Moriarty thing flashes across his countenance before being shoved firmly back down to those murky depths. Not now - he wasn't quite ready for those thoughts now. Mentally shaking it loose, John took a breath and pushed his way inside.

It has been two days since Sherlock's distillation of an oil found in the massage kit of a murdered holistic healer, combined with Molly`s effective soil analysis (from the slightly alkaline subsoil of West Hampstead heath) resulted in the arrests of a Reiki expert by the name of Gloria Scott, and Victor Trevor, the husband of her victim. Sherlock`s subsequent slump into lethargy, a head cold and increasingly depressing violin recitals had driven John to the lab to have lunch with Molly. It appeared that someone had beaten him to it.

Sherlock sat on top of a workbench, Dolce and Prada sprawled elegantly across the brushed steel and antiseptic gleam, and held forth a sheet of foolscap from which he appeared to be reading to Molly. Sitting beneath him on a chair, feet up and arms folded, her face was an elegant construction of concentration and irritation.

"Mmm."

Sherlock cocked a brow.

"The poem?"

"The poem is fine. He chose it himself, before he died… obviously."

"Then, you are finding my cadence inappropriate for the reading?"

She appeared to shift slightly in her arrangement, arms still folded tight across her white coat.

"Maybe it`s your cold… Mr Hepplewhite was a cleaner here for thirty two years. He came over from Poland during the last war and has raised five children and seventeen grandchildren. He was a respected church-goer and member of the local Polish community, many of whom will be attending his funeral on Thursday."

Sherlock's eyes say _buffering_ , thus she continues.

"He expressly asked that _you_ read the poem at his funeral. He loved reading about your cases on John's blog ( _hi John!_ )."

 _Still buffering…_

" _Sherlock, how did you get over here before me? I got a taxi immediately. You were still in the flat…(hi Molly)."_

"Sherlock, I don't think it's going to be _suitable_ … your voice…"

Sherlock slowly puts down the paper and a familiar expression of supercilious _knowledge-having_ is gradually awakening. It is his turn to fold his arms as he takes in the slightly discomforted form of Molly Hooper seated beneath him.

"Mr Hepplewhite liked my voice."

" _Seriously, you were still playing your violin."_

"Yeah, everyone likes your voice, Sherlock, it's just - at the moment, well, it's just a bit too - "

Sherlock smirks, tapping an immaculate loafer atop the immaculate bench.

" _Un-funereal_?" He offers, all innocence.

Molly jumps to her feet, snatching the poem from the bench in a flurry that suggests there is work to do and that conversation is over.

"I`ll just read it myself. He won't mind, being dead and all. Got heaps to do, bye Sherlock." And she is gone. Sherlock himself jumps down from the counter, still smirking, and takes the other door into the public areas, letting it swing erratically behind his retreating back.

John stands alone in the Morgue. A clock ticks weightily through the gathering silence. Seconds pass.

"Am I _actually_ invisible?" he asks, with only the dead as his silent witnesses.

 **~x~**

Almost six minutes. A new record.

Long, warm, elegant fingers cup the small shoulders of Molly Hooper, releasing her robe in one, deft flick and doing absolutely nothing to halt its descent. She considers speaking up for its loss, but her mouth is so very full of _his_ mouth; hot, soft, malleable, yet firm and demanding. He breaks away, face inches from hers and eyes so close, they are one, bright, shimmering flash of blue.

Tobacco, Polos, rosin and the faintest tang of lemon verbena, and him - just him. It was narcotic, it was dark, it was -

" _Sherlock -_ "

"Mmm. Words? Molly Hooper, we agreed. No words until - _much_ later."

"Statistics, Sherlock. For _science_."

His dark head lifts, to fix her gaze again - that quizzical crease.

"Just less than six minutes from your stepping across my threshold until my nakedness. In a world of shoddy and politically correct foreplay, you are quite the progressivist in cutting to the chase."

Within seconds, Molly Hooper finds herself recumbent and enclosed by the two strong forearms that two hours previously she had witnessed splintering an ox skull with a sledgehammer in lab number four (tucked away from the curious eyes of Sanderson and the lab monkeys). Sherlock contemplates her momentarily, but his eyes can only keep returning to her mouth. Distraction is more than adorable on him, she decides.

"My neoteric and groundbreaking analysis allows for nought but an efficiently swift liaison, Molly. Your desire for me was palpable today."

She rakes a hand through ragged curls, threading her fingers, pulling a little more.

"Indeed? _Palpable_?"

"Entirely. Pupils dilated, pulse elevated, cheeks flushed - "

"Modesty sits well on you, I see."

He presses his wonderful mouth against her throat and she can feel him smile. _Ah, gorgeous._

"My deeper voice - it excited you."

" _What_? Not a chance - "

He huffs an amused, warm breath across her levator scapulae, inducing a rather implicatory shiver.

" _Ye-ess_ ," whispers Sherlock Holmes, as deep, as rich and as shameless as a barrel of molasses.

 **~x~**

 _The slap._

Nothing had been the same after that.

If either of the two parties involved were forced to account for the moment that the molecules around them had fizzled, diverged and collided irrevocably altering the course of their relationship to one another, they would have to have agreed its origins lay there.

 _How dare you?!_

She'd said it, and she'd meant it.

Molly held her hand clenched at her side, resonating with a stinging pulse; the memory of his cheekbone and jaw, roughened by stubble and doss house grime, still tangible on her fingertips. A blueprint of her frustrations (and anger) remained there - at his disregard for the frailty of what comes with being human; how fragile and exposed we really all are, including _him_.

Later that day, he had called on his way to do some `shopping`, and he'd looked beautiful and new again, but it was too late. She had felt his humanity in that slap, and he knew it too. A line, some unspoken boundary that had held them so far apart - _expert and ingenue_ \- had been crossed, and the darkened lab illuminated only by small bench lights and the glow of Apple Mac screens now held them, dark and silent.

He entered, not knowing why he was there. To apologise? No. To make things right? No, things had _been_ right, but now Sherlock wanted them to be different - to be _wrong_.

She looked up, deepest brown to brightest blue, and took him in (all of him) and he actually laughed. Most unexpected, and Sherlock did so love the unexpected.

"Funny, Sherlock?"

He shook his head, approaching slowly, as if she were a rare beast that may startle at the slightest miscue. He shook his head, taking in her neckline, crumbs on the counter and the crease across her cheek matching that of her sleeve.

"You haven't been home."

"No."

"You`ve started drinking soya milk again; it won't help." He was at the corner of the mortuary table, close enough to see the tremor at the corner of her eye. Fatigue. Agitation.

"I`m not afraid of you anymore, Sherlock. I am _un-awed_ of you. _Disenchanted_."

"I know," whispered Sherlock Holmes, as she too, took a step, then raised her arms and held his face between her two ungloved hands ( _neither slap nor caress, but something in between_ ) -

and she kissed him; brazen, open-mouthed, fearless.

There were no barriers any more, and they both took what they wanted.

 **~x~**

Shootings, near death experiences and a very temporary exile were only slight disturbances which delayed, but could not halt, the relentless inevitability of their physical need. The breech of all the floodgates ever made had appeared - unpredicted, insatiable, and _necessary_. And no-one knew, since no-one thought to ask.

 _Sherlock and Molly are such good friends these days._

 _Friendships are so much more possible without sexuality muddying the waters._

 _Sex always gets in the way of a close friendship._

Sometimes, perhaps.

But not _always_.

 **~x~**

Fifty-eight minutes. A new record.

"Molly Hooper, are you calling me a taxi?"

Sheepish. Faint flush. Manga eyes. Most pleasing.

"We-ell, I do need to be in the office at 6.30 tomorrow morning. Suspected carbon monoxide poisoning at Grafton`s Bank. Huge lawsuit in the offing. Mike is sweating a bit - "

Sherlock is laughing. He adores how she sugarcoats the pill - a true physician. Grabbing his jacket, scarf, coat (and shoes) from her outstretched hand, he taps at his phone, making for the door, but not before dropping a chaste kiss atop her auburn head.

"You were _astonishing_."

And because this is Sherlock, and there is nothing to be gained for him by a sugar-coating, she glows from the compliment, since she understands that he means it.

"I know," she says, smiling as she closes the door behind him.

Such a perfectly symbiotic arrangement. If only everyone could manage to conduct their dealings in such an efficient and gratifying manner, how peaceful the world would be.

 **~x~**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Hi everyone! Thank you so much for following/favouriting.**

 **This is a shortie (but a little sweet for all that) but normal size will be resumed as soon as possible!**

 **Strictly Come Dancing is a BBC dance off with professionals and celebrities - I think it may be called Dancing with the Stars in the US.**

 **Thank you for stopping by. :)**

 **Emma x**

* * *

 **Stage II : Settling into a `Routine`**

Easing crippling new loafers (a bargain) from tired, surgery worn feet, John Watson sighs, closing his eyes in almost sensual pleasure. He balances a plate of custard creams and an indecently over-filled glass of merlot in one hand, searching through the crevasse of crumbs and detritus nestling down the back of his favoured chair with the other, frowning fractionally as his search proves fruitless. A clatter in the kitchen area serves to trigger a familiar irritation and he carefully places his treasures down upon the coffee table just in time to hear a fizzing crackle, loud snap and witness an insidious plume of white smoke wafting across from the stove, bringing with it a less than inviting aroma.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, what is…is that a set of _forceps_? No, don't tell me why you are using our only frying pan for _that_ \- just let's open some windows if you don't mind. And, while we're at it, can you tell me where the remote might be?"

Three trips down the stairs to Mrs Hudson's bins, in addition to a city summer breeze gently flapping the dusty curtains of Baker Street have succeeded in making a considerable improvement to the atmosphere, whereupon John feels more than deserving of his abandoned wine and biscuits as Sherlock casts his dressing gowned form across the sofa opposite with a faintly disdainful and annoyingly elegant _flop_. He appears immediately and deeply engrossed in a thick, foolscap document he holds above his head as John clicks on the telly with a remote control that is thickly reinforced with gaffer tape and missing several buttons.

"Hey, Sherlock, put that down, it's time for _Strictly Come Dancing._ You wanted to see if Talia`s foxtrot had improved any. I hear she's been having physio for her torn ligament."

Sherlock flipped over a heavily typed page with his thumb, but failed to glance towards the television.

"It`s a repeat, from last night."

"Yes, but you were out last night."

Another page is flicked over.

"Saw it. At Molly`s." (flick).

"Oh." John takes a (much anticipated) sip of his merlot, his eyes leaving his flat-mate and turning towards the whirling cacophony of brightly coloured images now parading across the screen. A few minutes pass. The music is a little atrocious so he turns it down.

"Molly likes _Strictly_ then?"

"Clearly." (flick)

"Ok." John takes another sip, then a biscuit and nibbles his custard cream, speculatively. Talia and her aged, portly celebrity partner are well into another disastrously comedic routine before he decides to speak again.

"I thought you were going through some autopsy notes, at Bart's."

John waits, listening to more rustling of pages as Sherlock speed reads his way through what looks like a paper on syphilis in bonobo monkeys.

"Mmm - Bart's was cold, Molly was tired, therefore her flat was more agreeable. Also, it has a television."

Oh dear, the portly celebrity had tripped over absolutely nothing; Talia was not going to smile her way out of this one, injury or no.

"So, you watch telly with Molly - _often_?"

"Your definition of `often' lacks criterion, John." Sherlock flicks to the last page and sighs, throwing the paper over the back of the sofa where it jostles for space amongst a small heap of its brethren. "Molly Hooper and I watch _Strictly Come Dancing_ , _Grand Designs_ and _Dexter_ on a relatively regular basis." He glances across at his friend. "She makes for an agreeable co-viewer, since she feels no need to comment, sigh, fidget or crunch noisy foodstuffs during the programme`s duration. I find her invisibility quite acceptable."

John Watson places his half-crunched biscuit back down upon the coffee table as Sherlock returns to a contemplation of the ceiling and a myriad of pixels of a thousand glittering sequins plays out in flickering Technicolor across both their faces.

 **~x~**

 _ **Mrs Merrilow? SH**_

 _ **No, this is Molly Hooper. You clearly have the wrong number. MH**_

 _ **I was (as you already know) referring to the results of Mrs Merrilow`s blood analysis. Mercury? SH**_

 _ **OK, I suppose this is no time for light hearted frivolity. Yes; methylmercury found to a fatal level. The symptoms she'd been suffering (twitching, headaches, poor nerve responses and tremors) give this further credence. Murder? MH**_

 _ **No. SH**_

 _ **No? Sherlock, I did the bloodwork twice, just to make sure. MH**_

 _ **I know. You are more than thorough, which is why you are doing the bloodwork and not Sanderson. SH**_

 _ **So? She accidentally became poisoned by Hg? MH**_

 _ **Yes. Minamata Disease. Mr Merrilow is the owner of The Silver Minnow in East Hampstead, the Michelin starred fish restaurant. Mrs Merrilow was a lover of swordfish, shark and King Mackerel. SH**_

 _ **Biomagnification. Oh, crap. That would explain the sweating and the tachycardia. MH**_

 _ **Indeed. Her habitual evening dinner, thanks to her body`s inability to degrade the catecholamines produced by so many mercury storing fish, was slowly killing her. Mr Merrilow is innocent of his wife's murder. SH**_

 _ **So, he`s off the hook then? ;) MH**_

 _ **Lestrade informs me he has been released, yes. SH**_

 _ **You`re not biting are you? MH**_

 _ **Molly Hooper, desist immediately. SH**_

 _ **LOL. You love it. MH**_

 _ **No. Nor do I love LOL. Goodnight. SH**_

 _ **And…? MH**_

 _ **Thank you. SH**_

 _ **Getting there. Goodnight, Sherlock. You did good. MH**_

 _ **I know. SH**_

 _ **So did you. SH**_


	3. Chapter 3

**Stage III: Start to Develop Feelings**

Molly Hooper`s favourite APT is also her favourite shopping friend, since Sarah Gnezere's eye-watering honesty has proved invaluable upon more than one occasion, where good sense has vied for attention with delusional vanity, and valid opinions have been thin on the ground.

" _What about this one?"_

" _No."_

" _Even with a little ribbon at the neck?"_

" _Especially with a little ribbon at the neck! NO!"_

Food shopping, therefore, is a natural progression and a post-shift trip to Tesco's one Saturday evening finds Molly Hooper and Sarah Gnezere deep within the unchartered territory of the fruit and veg aisle.

"Get some celery, Molly. Apparently, it uses more calories to chew it than it actually provides."

"Celery sticks are the devil's toothpicks - horrid!"

"Are potato waffles one of your five-a-day?"

"Obviously. As is wine (grapes) and gin (juniper berries).

"Aubergines are down to 25p each."

"Sherlock thinks that aubergines are pointless."

"How can a vegetable be pointless?"

"I didn`t ask."

"Pomegranates are so expensive this time of year, but I love them; they remind me of little rubies."

"Or viscera."

"What?!"

"Sorry. Just something Sherlock said about pomegranates."

Later, both women sit in an achingly trendy (yet slightly draughty) coffee shop, sipping at scalding lattes, with their shopping stuffed beneath the bench they perch at.

" - so, after that, I had to store my cheese next to three, slightly decomposed jellyfish in my fridge, and they were still more than capable of giving me a nasty sting every time I went for the Stilton!"

Sarah is a statuesque, copper-skinned, green-eyed Kenyan beauty who keeps parrots, Champagne corks and secrets, but not, it would seem, silent opinions.

"These jellyfish, I'm guessing, belonged to Sherlock Holmes?"

Molly is stirring a little sugar into her coffee, but catches the eye of her friend, since Sarah`s sweetness is a commodity she is not quite assured of at this moment.

"Well, yes."

"And that's ok?"

She stirs a little faster, a frown of concentration ploughing a furrow across her brow.

"His fridge was full. It really wasn`t a problem…"

Sarah`s viridian eyes gleam with nought but empathy as she clasps a dry, warm palm across the right hand of Molly Hooper, causing cessation of her agitated stirrings. She is tough, forthright and fearless in the face of stating the obvious, but she loves Molly Hooper and thus, treads more carefully.

At first.

"We're friends, Sarah. We weren't before, but we are now. It`s ok. We're equals now. I like him."

"You like him with your _girl-parts too_?"

 _Molly Hooper, you are glowing like hot coals on a freezing winter's night. That is just about the most disgraceful, horrendous thing anyone could possibly have said… that is just… just…_

"Like I said - _friends_. Friends who have ' _the sex'_. Quite a bit, actually."

Sarah Gnezere sits back in her tiny, incredibly uncomfortable and achingly fashionable stool and gives her friend the benefit of her most even-handed gaze.

"That`s good, girl. He`s one beautiful pain in the arse and I, for one, would like to see him begging for it - "

"Steady on!"

"But - " Lighthearted banter has stepped aside in favour of serious sounding parental advisory warning, and Molly takes a deep breath, all the more ready for the expected lecture.

"Molly, just don't take up with the _caring_ about Sherlock Holmes. He is emotionally unavailable, so _you_ are emotionally unavailable - remember that. That is what you repeat each time you see those beautiful blue eyes over the homogenizer, babe."

Miss Molly Hooper snorts out a laugh she hopes has some element of sardonic humour attached to it. Sherlock _was_ her friend (albeit with certain benefits which no-one could deny were satisfactory on every level); they solved puzzles in the lab, they watched telly on a Saturday night, they laughed at wizened fruit in Tescos together. Oh, and when they touched each other, it was as if the whole world peeled away, but aside from that, it was everyday stuff; commonplace - normal.

Emotionally unavailable. Was there any other way to be?

 **~x~**

 **The Six Bells Tavern, Whitechapel**

 **Friday evening**

 _Why, this is hell, nor am I out of it._

Faustus (or, indeed, Mephistopheles) clearly had no clue as to the the distinctly tedious habits of slightly inebriated blue and white collar workers at the tail end of another dreadfully dull working week. Dockworkers, medics, stallholders and an abundance of Met. officers from the Yard congest its low-ceilinged, nicotine stained walls ( _oh, happy days_ ) with their raucous, booming laughter and wildly inaccurate suppositions. Political diatribes ( _boring)_ , sexual innuendo ( _fallacious and slightly disturbing_ ); pop-culture references ( _unfathomable_ ) and alcohol-induced affection ( _intolerable_ ) are all served up, within a crapulous menu of idiocy.

 _Yet, here I am._

I have only myself to blame, of course, since I allowed John and Lestrade to drag me along here to `celebrate` the conviction of Gottileb _(ten years without parole. At this moment, I envy him)_ and a good deal of favourable tabloid reporting ( _for once)_. John would usually be my one fixed point of sanity in such a deafening maelstrom of self-congratulatory indulgence, but I fear that he is three pints in and losing all memory of his promise of `just a couple, Sherlock, and we'll get off home,' as he gesticulates over-zealously to Lestrade at the bar, spilling several millilitres of _Old Peculiar_ in the process. Gracious, Sally Donovan seems to have caught my gaze and is attempting to wind her way unsteadily across the room towards me. Judging by her smeared lipstick, watery mascara and inherent air of disappointment, I suspect Anderson has been in receipt of a few `home truths' regarding her opinion of his current marital arrangement. People are so dull and predictable, it sometimes makes me want to weep myself.

"Hey, Easter Island Man, want to step out for some air?"

And, miraculously, there stands Molly Hooper, grinning, and holding two cigarettes and an offer of the eternal joys of heaven as she nods towards the door in the nick of time.

 **~x~**

"You don`t smoke."

"Nor do you."

We lean into the cold brickwork, inhaling deeply, and I close my eyes, smiling as the nicotine embraces my tensed yet beleaguered constitution, and soothes it like a mother`s lullaby. It is almost euphoric. I open my eyes to see her smiling at me, teeth glinting bright in the orange glow of the tungsten bulb above our heads. I raise my eyebrow, but cannot speak just yet… just let me _breathe_ a little more.

"You looked like you needed - a breather," she says, almost reading my mind and inducing a shiver little to do with the evening chill.

I nod, gesturing with my hand, letting the cigarette burn it`s little orange eye into the darkness of the alleyway and spilling ash over my shoes.

"Mmm… _gatherings_ \- not my area."

Molly laughs and I note she wears a pale green shirt covered in cabbage roses, and that the night is far from clement. Offering her my cigarette, I shrug my coat from my shoulders and drape it over her own, pulling the lapels down straight, as I might do to myself before leaving the flat. The two cigarettes glow dimly in her hands as she looks up, an unfathomable look passing across her eyes. In an instant, it is gone as she reunites me with my preferred brand of poison and leans back into the wall, staring up at the thin sliver of starry sky that is visible between the black, high walls.

"That`s just like you, Sherlock Holmes," she breathes, through a wreath of smoke. "Selfish as the day is long."

And I smile, watching her watching the stars.

 **~x~**

One hour previously…

Wow, Friday nights in Whitechapel haven`t seen this much yelling and violence since Jack the Ripper was doing the rounds back in the day. I`ve been stood at this bar, being pushed, shoved, squashed and (very definitely) groped for the past ten minutes, trying to get served. City Bankers trying to be trendy, and Hipsters (same) pushing past, ignoring my actual existence in their ardent desire to try the latest organically-charged hopfest featured in this month's GQ before it becomes unfashionable again (a very small window of opportunity). Actually, it's the Met lads who are the worst; they care nothing for _uber-beer_ , but just want lots of it - very quickly and very often.

As my boobs are, once more, pressed into the back of a total stranger by the force of another total stranger, I am suddenly terribly relieved to see a couple of familiar faces, laughing and swilling beer like they're neck and neck in the Olympic finals.

"Molly! Get over here, Greg`s got you a Pernod and black!"

John Watson's voice manages to straddle the relentless clamour of noise that's bouncing around this low ceilinged pressure cooker as he holds up one of my most hated drinks, which I am overjoyed to accept as I gratefully dodge another surge from the melee.

"Having fun, boys?" John is wearing his best checked shirt, khaki jacket and beer-loving grin as he pats me genially on the back. "Thanks so much, it`s hell out there."

"Never lost a man in the field yet, Hooper," he smiles, crinkling navy eyes.

"You played a blinder getting those soil samples sorted with Sherlock," adds Greg. "This cop is yours, fair and square."

Both nod enthusiastically, and I enjoy the warmth of appreciation (as well as that of a hundred sweaty bodies) as I take a trepidatious sip of my aromatic aniseed brew.

"What were you both giggling like little boys at - ah…"

To the casual observer, Sherlock appeared to be in the midst of a petit-mal seizure, but to us it was clear he was _filtering_ …

"Mind Palace?"

"Almost. On the driveway, anyhow. Nearly at the gates."

Giving them both the benefit of my sternest upbraiding glare, I gratefully set down the repellent drink and hold out an expectant hand.

"A couple of fags, Greg, or I`m not sifting through any more loams for you."

 **~x~**

His coat.

 _The coat._

It lies heavy across my shoulders, like a dead weight holding me steady should a sudden gust take hold and whip me away, high into the inky black sky. I suck in the acrid smoke like a greedy teenager; I hate smoking, but my need is great and my hands are busied by its comforting action. The wool is nubbly against the soft skin of my neck where my hair is free of it, and as if by habit, he has flicked up the collar so it stands tall and proud around my face, like a woven wall of protection against the cooling darkness.

I turn my eyes skywards and watch the glittering constellations, billions of miles above my head; a spill of mercury splashed across a velvet cloth, now hazy through our rising smoke.

Glancing back, I see Sherlock looking at _me_ all dressed up in his armour, smoking an illicit cigarette in a back alley and keeping away from the crowds. The dim light above shadows the planes of his extraordinary face and protean gaze, and I suddenly feel dizzyingly safe _and_ unsafe at exactly the same moment, and consequently find myself blurting out:

"I can't meet up for _Strictly_ this Saturday - I'm out, on a date."

And he nods, dropping his cigarette to the ground and crushing it underfoot.

"Of course you are," he replies, softly.

 **~x~**


	4. Stage IV

**Stage IV: Things Fall Apart**

 **Saturday night:**

Joseph Wilson is fair, freckly and funny. He`s a _SHO_ on Obs and Gynae at my very own place of work, so that`s medical stuff we've got in common already. Also, he writes a Blog about `life` as a _SHO_ on an _Obs and Gynae_ ward (which is actually spot on and toe-curlingly hilarious, although names are changed to protect the idiots) and is the proud owner of a slightly overweight biscuit coloured pug called Otto. He collects the discarded red rubber bands from pavements (left by postmen when they are sorting their letters) to prevent birds mistaking them for worms and choking on them. Yes, he really is that nice. Joseph has a thick, flaxen fringe that he pushes back, causing it to fall in rakish angles above his round, black-rimmed glasses, which gives him the look of a Harry Potter/Boris Johnson love-child (but in a really sweet, un-irritating way). He`s read many books (but not too many), rides a bicycle (but not when it's too cold/busy as he doesn't want to freeze his bits off or get himself under a No. 47 bus during rush hour) and he accidentally grew some marijuana when his birdseed got spilt into his window box (yeah, I know, unlikely). Joseph Wilson asked me decent, thoughtful questions without being too probing or nosy, and we found we shared an obsession with the film ` _War Games_ `, starring Matthew Broderick, before he married Carrie from _Sex and the City_ and became a Broadway sensation. Truly, in a city of over eight million people, how did a blind date manage to be so determinedly _lovely?_

Dr Joseph Wilson walked me back to my flat (after buying me a cocktail made almost entirely of passionfruit/frogspawn and ice), kissing me chastely on cheek, but giving me a hot look about the eyes that suggested he may be desiring more of my company at a very near time in the future. Lovely Joseph Wilson; early signs look very promising.

I slump in my chair, dumping fancypants date handbag across the sofa and flicking on the TV just in time for the _Strictly Come Dancing_ results. Mediocre. Nothing's quite the same without Talia.

 **~x~**

 **Saturday Night:**

Sirens scream eighty feet below the ledge of the tower block; doors slam, whistles blow and loudhailers can be heard crackling their unintelligible welter of words as the emergency services gather below, flashing blue, orange, red - _danger, danger,_ _danger_. Eighty feet above, two shaking arms grasp for purchase over the edge of a concrete balcony and feet scrabble beneath, scuffing the grey pebble dash with relentless _thud, thud, thud_. The body curled over that balcony, half seeking salvation, half threatening a permanent exit, shakes violently as the wind whips across her, billowing her thin pink shirt about her torso. When she'd dressed that morning, there was none, but there is always more wind eighty feet up into a darkening London skyline. Here, it will rip your shirt from your back, whisk your hair savagely about your face, as if taunting you with its latent power - ` _I can take you, any time I wish, you remain here at my whim.'_

But the wind is not the only companion of Chantal Horgan on the balcony of the eighth floor of Milverton Park Flats. A tall, rangy-looking man, with angular features, bright eyes and dark curls almost flattened by the high winds, stands only feet away from those desperate arms as they cling, with a weakness that drags.

The man steps forward slightly, even though a hand from within the flat holds his arm, as if to temper his resolve. He moves anyway.

"Chantal!" His voice is strong and deep, with an inherent calm that cuts through the wind as a command.

"Chantal - _look at me!"_

The woman scrabbles, clings and scrunches her face into a child-like mask of horror and denial: _Nothing will hurt me with my eyes shut._

"Chantal!" The wind whips at his voice and tosses it across the balcony, and some small part finds her and grabs at all she has left.

" _Go awaaayy!_ " Her arms sag, her feet slow; she hasn`t much left, he hasn't much time.

He falls down then, to his knees, and crawls his way across the concrete East London council flat balcony on all fours until he can be sure she can hear his words. She _must_ hear his words.

"Chantal, give me your hand. I know that you are innocent."

Her fingers are two feet away, scrabbling weakly for purchase. He can, through the whipping gusts, hear her breathing, gasping, holding on.

"You could not have tied the knots around his neck - " his words are snatched rudely from his lips before they are even fully formed.

"Your nail technician has time dated photographs… I have viewed hours of CCTV footage following you at work, in shopping centres... you had your acrylic nails applied two days before the murder and the same acrylics remained until a week after his disappearance; there is no doubt."

He leans against the freezing pebbledash and breathes hard, dispersing the adrenalin. So weak is she, the screaming has lessened to a chilling groaning sound.

"Your nails would not have allowed you - _allowed anyone_ \- to tie such ligatures as were found around his neck. I have conducted exhaustive tests and the judge has declared a mistrial." His fingers are long, strong and determined and they are suddenly across the balustrade as his eyes lock with hers and his hands grasp her wrists and her fingers scrabble at his; tight and irrevocable... like a vice, like a promise.

"Not today," breathes Sherlock Holmes, holding tight and staring into the eyes of a woman who had lost all will to survive, as three officers rush out to their aid.

"Not today, Chantal Hogan. Wrong day to die."

But she lets go anyway.

 **~x~**

 **Saturday night (late):**

How does she feel at the familiar rap across her door? Admittedly, it is 3 o'clock in the morning and she is in the thrall of an exhaustion so deep and draining she thought she would never surface at the sound of the insistent knocking, but her gut squirms, clenches and rolls in quite the treacherous choreography, since she _knows_.

 _Open locks, whoever knocks._

He pushes in, through the door, room beyond room until freezing night air, cold fabric and chilled skin engulf her bed-warm body, bringing it back to life and her arms curl instinctively around him, still fully-dressed and moving, enveloping, enshrouding her.

"Sherlock - "

Her warm cheek melds tight against his cold one, and she instantly bites down the shock of its wetness, and realises the truth of his heaving shoulders and shuddering breaths.

"Oh, Sherlock, God, what - ?"

But he is silent in his weeping, and her arms pulls him tight around her smallness until his vice-like grip relaxes and his chest heaves less.

Minutes pass, hours perhaps, until faint fingertips of peachy light poke tentatively around the poorly drawn curtains of Molly Hooper's `master-bedroom'. Her fingers caress his dark head, softly winding through his hair, and her body lies still yet oddly comfortable, beneath layers of cotton, duvet, wool and sleeping detective ( _still, notably, wearing coat and shoes)_. Molly`s eyes are wide and staring at the ever-growing crack that has been spreading across her ceiling for the best part of six years, and she knows that, any moment, she must get up and get moving, at the same time as wanting to lie there until the end of time.

 _How`s `Emotionally Unavailable' working out for you, Molly Hooper?_

 _Great. Couldn't be better. I`ve really got it sorted._

 _Fantastic._

 _Congratulations._

She closes her eyes.

 **~x~**

An hour later, he is stepping out of the door he had breached so desperately mere hours earlier. Ashen, exhausted, drained of life and energy, his eyes are dim and empty and she knows she cannot reach him. At the moment before she speaks he turns and reaches out a pale hand, cupping the curve of her jaw and oh-so-gently, traces one laconic finger across her cheek.

"I'm sorry Molly," he murmurs as she searches his face and clasps his cold hand ( _why so cold?_ ) briefly in her own.

And she knows he is saying goodbye.

 **~x~**

One month after the death of Chantal Horgan sees a sombre John Watson returning from The Old Bailey after giving a distressingly thorough and detailed eye witness account of that night. Sherlock had delivered his own report just the day before, but John had seen little of him since. A seemingly sudden and multifarious deluge of new cases were rolling around their Baker Street quarters (quite literally, considering Sherlock's hatred of filing) and his flatmate was utterly absorbed in gathering data, researching bizarre medical conditions, questioning clients without propriety or self-editing and creating quite the maelstrom about the place. Entirely normal, and unusually welcome as it happened, since John had been - well, _worried -_ for a little while, directly after a girl had chosen death over life because her boyfriend had been murdered.

Sherlock had gone into lockdown for three days, not moving from their rooms, or even getting dressed. It had taken the outraged haranguing of Mrs Hudson, when seeing a man who was no stranger to a Newburgh Street Barber and Savile Row tailoring wearing pyjama bottoms and a tee shirt she professed to be ` _not worth my duster bag_ `. Consequently, Sherlock Holmes had adopted a more professional demeanour and since then, the troubled folk of London Town had trekked in through his doors in droves.

" _My wife`s new hobby is endangering my life."_

" _My daughter's new house can no longer be found on GPS."_

" _My landlord is charging me double for electricity I am not using."_

When Mr Ford Maddox had been curtly (yet efficiently) informed that his landlord was tending a cannabis farm in the room above his which accounted for the drain on his meter, Sherlock had switched off his `client smile`, turned on his heel and ploughed into the next conundrum in his overloaded brain attic.

And so it went on.

Trudging from the Bailey along Limeburn Lane and onto Giltspur Street, John naturally found his thoughts turning to Bart's and his feet followed his thoughts as he stepped into the Morgue entrance.

Unusually, Molly Hooper wasn`t sat at her favourite stool, hunched over some batch of slides or sifting through piles of case notes that towered precariously at her side. Instead, a tall, green eyed girl with intricately braided hair and desultory expression was filling a glassware cupboard, and was the sole inhabitant of the lab. She looked up as he entered and their eyes met in a cautious glance of semi-recognition.

"Sarah?"

"Sherlock's friend?"

John suppressed a sigh. He was used to it by now.

"Yeah, _John_. John Watson. I was … um, just looking to see if Molly fancied a coffee. Haven`t seen her in a while."

Sarah closed the cupboard door and gave him the full benefit of her contemplation. He thought he noted a small smile twitch at the corner of her mouth.

"It`s because… we are just _friends_ , you know."

"Yeah, I do. She's out, actually, on a date with a sweet little baby doctor from upstairs. Been seeing him a while."

This was news. "Ah, well, that sounds promising."

"Yeah, it is. She deserves better than casual hook-ups - "

"She does - "

" - with _your friend_."

He only realised he was rudely staring at her after around twenty seconds of _rude staring_.

"I - er, that is - _what?!_ "

This really _was_ news.

 **~x~**

 **Baker Street**

 **30 minutes later**

I am at my microscope when I hear the scrabbling of John`s key as it attempts purchase at the lock, then the flinging forth of the front door and subsequent slam in the door jam, ensuring a resonance that shakes the whole front of the house (I do hope Mrs Hudson isn't entertaining). Keys rattle and size 9 Dachstein ex-army boots thump up the seventeen stairs with more than their fair share of poorly-tempered ire. Swift geographical calculations determine the nearness of the Old Bailey to Bart's, and it is not too far-fetched a deduction to surmise that John Watson is in receipt of _new knowledge_.

I sigh, move my chair back and face the door, readying myself for my second defensive declaration in two days.

The door is thrown open, fortuitously halted by a pile of Antoine Lavoisier`s treatises on analytical chemistry before it wreaks (further) havoc with Mrs Hudson`s wall. John`s stance and facial arrangement affect both anger and another strong emotion I cannot quite place -

"Why couldn't you just bloody well tell me? I feel a _complete tosser_ , yet again, down to being kept out of things!"

Ah, _aggrieved._

"I am relatively new to social mores and etiquette, John, but I did imagine that my sexual choices should be afforded some degree of privacy."

I am being careful not to further antagonise, but judging by the way he throws his jacket down and pulls a bottle of beer from the fridge with savage disregard for my gelatin experiments, I am not succeeding.

"The mere fact of hearing _you_ saying the words ` _sexual choices_ ' knocks me into a tailspin, Sherlock. All this time I`m fed this ` _I am a thinking machine, I don't do relationships - with humans_ ` - line, and you being all Spock and ` _I don't have feelings_ `, and being all shut down when people are breaking their hearts in your front room… it's… it's…"

He appears to run out of words (mercifully) and shakes his head, taking a swig from the bottle. I wait.

"You are sleeping with Molly? _You_?"

"I was, yes."

Another shake, another swig.

"How long? Since before you knew me?" I clearly see the hurt in his eyes and feel a twinge within my chest. I love John, and therefore hate to see him upset. Appalling.

"No, John. Since… since she slapped me, in the lab."

He looked at me, incredulous. _All that time, Sherlock, and you didn't share this with me._

"So…" he shakes his head, trying again to clear it.

"So, you`ve been having a - _relationship_ \- with Molly, in secret, for all these months?"

"Obviously not as secretly as I had assumed, since you now - "

"Shut UP, Sherlock!"

And I do.

 **~x~**


	5. Stage V

**Stage V: Learn from your experiences**

By 9pm, we are both drinking, despite Sherlock's usual Spartan ` _I'm on a case so can`t eat/drink/sleep_ ' regime. Seems that rules are made to be broken, and no mistake. I still haven't anywhere near forgiven him, but I suppose I shall eventually, since I _have_ actually forgiven him for worse. _Much_ worse. We sit opposite each other in poses slightly reminiscent of my Stag night, but we are older, more sober and one hell of a tsunami of water has gone under the bridge since then.

There are many things I want to say, to ask, but how? How do I broach some of the most delicate aspects of human interaction - the subtle nuances that sexuality and friendship bring to any two people, especially when one of them is quite… _new_ , to his inner workings?

"Sherlock, Molly had a crush on you, for oh-so-long."

"John," he tips up the bottle and swallows - "I did not take advantage of Molly Hooper."

"No?"

"Certainly not. The only way we ever managed to become physical with each other was when she no longer had that `crush'. When she slapped me, she saw me as I really am - weak, vulnerable, flawed - and then we were on an equal footing. Then, it could begin."

"You make it sound like it was destined to be - _written in the stars?_ "

Sherlock rolls his eyes slightly, but his edges are worn away by alcohol, so he tolerates my lapse into hyperbole a little better.

"I am not sure John, that you would be entirely comfortable hearing of my descent into the pleasures of the flesh with Molly Hooper - "

My face flames. "Jesus, Sherlock!" But he has the good grace to smile.

"Suffice to say, to continue your star analogy, our planets were very much aligned."

I take refuge in my bottle and the picture on the wall just above his head.

"Ah, I see."

"Do you? I'm not sure you do, John." Sherlock sits back, placing the bottle onto a side table and steeples his fingers beneath his mouth, in contemplative pose.

"Molly has become one of my dearest friends. As you know, it is not easy to be my friend, and I do so try to appreciate those people who make the effort."

I considered voicing my opinion regarding how much _more_ effort Molly had been investing in their friendship than I had realised, or perhaps sketch out for him what was meant by _appreciation_ , but I didn't want to interrupt _Sherlock Holmes_ _explains his feelings_. Along with unicorn bar mitzvahs and leprechaun christenings, such a rarity was to be encouraged at all costs.

"I like her," he continues, eyes fixed somewhere far off in the middle distance. "I like her shocking honesty, her vastly underrated intelligence, her inveterate kindness and her appalling attempts at humour. I like how she can smoke with me in a filthy alleyway, but still see the stars; how she allows me to inhabit her fridge with stinging invertebrates as the need arises, but scolds me for forgetting the milk . I like how she can alter my mood in a moment with a cogently worded comment, or even a look - " He suddenly gazes at me, as if he`s stumbled upon a crucial piece of evidence and it's essential I understand - "John, Molly Hooper - she really does _see_ me."

And it's only when he smiles at me, a truly genuine and open smile, with neither agenda, snark or artifice, that I realise he's in love with her.

The question then is, does _he_?

 **~x~**

Doctor Joseph Wilson is one very patient Senior House Officer - _fact._

 _Oh, let me count the ways..._

When I insist on meeting him for our nights out on his ward, since I don't want near in the Morgue (just in case).

When I affect a migraine (after exhibiting rude good health only seconds before) as I realise it`s Angelo`s we were heading for to eat pasta.

When we have to walk the long way round because I can't cut through The Marylebone Gardens anymore.

When I can`t eat the aubergine in a carefully prepared moussaka (since they are, actually, _pointless_ ).

When I actually cried ( _sobbed, blubbed_ ), scaring a perfectly innocent violinist busking on the Embankment because she was playing Paganini.

When I dragged him into a shop selling crystal unicorns and dragons because I saw someone tall and dark and coat wearing, coming the other way.

But where Dr Joseph Wilson is at the zenith of his patience is when, after four and a half weeks of going out, I have never allowed him (in the manner of a coy, Victorian maiden) more than a hand to hold or a cheek to kiss.

Not once has this lovely, patient man called me on my (frankly, insane) behaviour or questioned my anachronistic and utterly inexplicable moral code. He likes me (he tells me so) and seems to enjoy my company (in spite of the melodramatic and bizarrely truncated traverses around London). He _does_ pick up rubber bands dropped by postmen and he _does_ appear to cheer both colleagues and patients alike when he breezes through the wards, just by being- _lovely_. Christ, even his blog is funny.

The truth is, I am a big, fat liar and I do not deserve a man as lovely and funny and patient as Dr. Joseph Wilson. In _The Curious Case of The Friendship of Sherlock Holmes_ , I had, in all honesty (really need to start somewhere) stopped being _Emotionally Unavailable_ some considerable time ago but I was just too blind and ridiculous to notice, and am now just so _angry_ (with myself, naturally) because I thought I had it all sorted out. Sherlock Holmes was a human being, not a deity, not a schoolgirl crush. I'd had my fill of the tingling awkwardness created by the vacuum of unreciprocated feelings for another. I`d seen Sherlock - ` _The Man'_ , and I thought we could be great friends (we were) and perhaps even great lovers (we _really_ were) without any emotional fallout.

 _Liar, Molly Hooper_.

Getting to know the `real' Sherlock didn't protect me at all, it just allowed me to fall in love with a _real_ person - real, heart-stopping, gut-wrenching, brain-churning love, and I want it to stop, _now_.

Because _I'm_ not patient at all.

 **~x~**

James Damery is late and I find myself both perplexed and irritated.

 _Perplexed_ , since his message on my blog hinted strongly at a raging paranoia and a fervent desire for my assistance in the matter of a missing dissertation; _irritated_ since his disproportionate fear of being overheard by other, _`interested parties'_ appeared to require a meeting place of his choosing. Both the weather and inconvenience of leaving Baker Street at this moment is increasingly trying, and had the case not exhibited some extremely promising features, I should be at home, testing out my newly distilled water-based solvent and assessing the true motives of Miss Helen Stoner`s new interior designer. To make matters worse (if that were possible), Mrs Hudson was quite clearly lurking in the stairwell as I left, with an aroma of bleach and furniture wax about her person, in addition to a look of steely determination. Too many times have I returned home to find my dust index in complete ruination thanks to the interference she insists on dubbing _`a good bottoming, Sherlock.`_

And James Damery is getting later by the second.

Taxis were in short supply (thanks to atrocious traffic), forcing me onto the dreaded District and Circle line to reach Lincoln's Inn and The Hunterian Museum for our rendezvous. In addition to the unique elements surrounding this case (deadly nightshade infused paper!), John Watson did point out that this venue did host some illuminating specimens (over 4,000 in the Pathology and Anatomy section alone), and the Royal College of Surgeons holds regular talks here, (currently _An Anatomy of a Hanging_ by Mr Richard Pusey FRCS - fascinating) should I wish to make it worth my while. As appealing as some of these features are, I reflect as I wait impatiently for Mr Damery, I strongly suspect a conspiracy by John Watson and Mrs Hudson to clear me out for some utterly extraneous _tidying up_.

I am also beginning to consider the contagious potential of paranoia.

Huge, white vaulted ceilings above my head with a gallery running in dark wood and eerily-lit display cases along every wall. The glass-like sheen across the pale wooden floor contradicts the tread of a thousand footfalls, and hushed tones lend a strange reverence to the 4,000 specimens, suspended forever in gallons of formaldehyde. As I said, _fascinating._

I sit alone on a vast, white, rectangular bench, itself lending a slightly incongruous space-age feel to this spare-parts repository. Closing my eyes, I attempt to recollect the elements of the new solvent, finding myself wondering about the aromaticity of this latest batch and whether the bonding agents would allow the molecules to be held long enough for efficacy...

Feeling a draft pass closely by, I open an eye just in time to catch a glimpse of pink as a young, Chinese woman`s coat billows through my eye line-

(" _Chantal, look at me!" " Give me your hand…" "Go awaaaaay!_ ")

-and then I check my phone for the _fifth time_ (currently fourteen minutes late) noticing a flashing message from John:

" _Give the poor bugger a chance to make it through the traffic at least! JW"_

He knows me far too well.

 **~x~**

 _I have a rendezvous with death…_

An innocent girl decides that she would rather let go of my hand and plummet to the concrete eighty feet below than be pulled to safety.

Her eyes were the deepest brown, pupils blown with horror and wide with that tinge of insanity all adrenalin charged situations inflict.

( _"Go awaaay!)_

For days, weeks, I was haunted by those eyes, by that decision. I had surely removed her motive for suicide? Her conviction would have been rescinded immediately; she would have walked free with a chance to live out the remainder of her life, to make the tragedy of her boyfriend's murder become lesser with time. Surely, so many platitudes regarding grief and time cannot be entirely banal? I hear John utter such things to clients on an almost daily basis.

In recent days, however, I must admit that I have been guilty of the capital mistake of theorising without sufficient data. I sit amongst 4,000 attempts to catalogue humanity and begin to realise why Chantal Horgan let go of my hand. She cared nothing for her arrest, her trial, her conviction and sentencing; she had not clung to the edge of an East End tower block because her liberty was challenged. That moment before she let go, the wildness of her deep, brown eyes quietened, becoming almost tranquil, serene. In that split second, she made her peace. Chantal chose death because to her, life without her love was intolerable. I imagine John thinks love is a mystery to me, yet the chemistry is so very dangerous and so very destructive, and here we have the final proof. My arrogance was imagining I could apply logic to the human psyche- solve a problem, save a life.

No, since some things cannot be catalogued. I left Molly Hooper's flat that morning, meaning not to return since I felt a pull, a danger, a _yearning._

Leaning back into the horribly uncomfortable space-age seating I close my eyes again, a sudden, narcotic torpidity settling upon me, and I know that James Damery will not be coming; not now, not ever. Minutes ( _hours? Aeons?_ ) pass and multitudinous footfalls fade into one, lone set, coming closer across the cavernous atrium. Slight, small (short-stride), slightly fallen instep on the right-hand side. Trepidatious, slightly hesitant, yet strong, brave, determined, _perfect_. I open my eyes.

"Hello, Sherlock," says Molly Hooper, holding a sheaf of notes, including a map. "I'm guessing the conference on Pathological Hematopathology isn't actually happening here is it?"

John Watson, how you continue to surprise me.

(Clearly, paranoia should not always be ignored).

A shaft of late summer sun has broken through the stormy clouds of the morning and transcends huge windows, catching her hair with a sheen of bronze that arrests both my gaze and my every conscious thought. Looking into another pair of deep, brown eyes, I feel the fear and let go anyway.

"Hello, Molly," I smile, since now I know (and I hate not knowing).

Obvious, really.

 **~x~**

 **Three months later**

Sherlock lies across the couch, holding a heavy looking tome above his head with one hand, whilst texting rapidly with a single thumb on the other. His blue dressing gown is askance, his pyjama bottoms rumpled and his feet bare. His hair, in accordance, appears untameable.

"John, if I had meant _flies_ , I would have said _flies_. Since I said _beetles_ , I would imagine that would mean- "

John scrolls down his laptop screen whilst biting down a few choice comments of his own.

"Yeah, OK Sherlock, I'm looking now... if you could aim for the patience of a toddler instead of a newborn, that would be just great."

"Sarcasm does not recompense for inattention, John. What have I always said regarding _details_?"

"Mmm. If your arms does get tired of holding that book above your head, Sherlock, be sure to give into it."

"What have I just-"

" _Beetles!"_

Molly Hooper`s surety cuts through the squabble like a Swann-Morton scalpel, wrapped up in a sweet smile and a tray of tea.

"Beetles were found in the corpse of Mr David Meredith, _Dermestid_ family."

Sherlock puts down the book and phone immediately.

"I knew it! Keratin eaters!"

"They do love their protein." She puts down the tray. John notices there are biscuits again. There are always biscuits on the tray these days.

Sherlock sits up in a flurry of dressing gown and crazy hair, smiling happily and looking directly at her.

"They don`t set about the cadaver buffet until at least five or six days after death, and they won't touch a body affected by cyanide."

"So Brophy couldn't have done it - he was in Belarus five days before."

"And they chose the wrong poison too - goodness, two mistakes! It's like Christmas!"

John Watson watches their delight and experiences a little warmth stealing around his heart on this cold December morning. He turns from his laptop and reaches over for his stripey cup... Christ, Molly's tea was so much better than Sherlock's.

"If you two could just tone down this romantic slush; too much talk of decaying corpses could be a little much to bear for a man who`s currently single."

And Sherlock glowers in return while Molly Hooper just laughs and tousles his hair, as a tease, as a lover, as a friend.

 **THE END**


End file.
